


Emain

by Deuterosis



Category: World Trigger (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Aftercare, Blame the Event Prompt, Blame the Pun, Chika Got the Weirdest Ladyboner and It All Went Downhill from There, Consensual Kink, Ema Loves His Wife a Lot, Emetophilia, F/M, Future Fic, Please Blame Everything but Me Even Though It's My Fault, Romance, Trust between Lovers, Unprotected Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29074758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deuterosis/pseuds/Deuterosis
Summary: What can I say?  Blame bad puns for this!
Relationships: Amatori Chika/Ema Yuzuru
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think it's hilarious how I just slipped “Emetophilia” in between all those more everyday tags. The pun part may not be obvious, so I'll tell you the Greek word meaning “to vomit” is “emein”. The prompt, of course, was “Totally Vulgar”.
> 
> Well, I wouldn't recommend reading this if you're going to find it gross. But if you continue anyway, I do hope you'll at least find it entertaining/interesting/amusing. Or strangely heartwarming. It's fun to take unusual things and make them romantic.
> 
> I _almost_ added this to the Anonymous Collection, but I chose not to in the end, because one of my objectives with this account was to help others in the fandom feel freer to write _whatever_ they choose. Since it's only words, after all, as long as people recognize where reality starts and fiction ends. Seeing someone shamed out of completing a very interesting story because someone disapproved of the (tagged) themes made me want to write far “worse” stories bravely and openly; hence also my participation in an anti-censorship Bingo. Now, wouldn't it defeat the purpose if I then started worrying about “my reputation” turning into “that person who wrote Chika having a vomit kink”?
> 
> Also technically I've written and will write far worse than a married couple consensually exploring a messy kink... so why be that embarrassed about it?

"Are you okay?"

_No one is fooled,_ he thought: not her, not him, and especially not the second brain over his gut. The tempura shrimp had a problem with him. It may have caught in his throat wrongly, he may be coming down with something; why, really, was meaningless, against the end result.

He could see no way to politely pardon himself from the table without opening the gates, and, hoping she would get the picture from his raised finger, pushed himself away and lurched off.

It took too much effort just to stay his gate and not stumble on his path, and he couldn't even make it to the door of the indoor seating area without having to pause in desperate hopes things would settle long enough for the next leg of this trip. He'd come near enough the rail to put a hand out and grasp it, looking out to the grove of upper-thirds of trees nearly thrice his size.

Of course, most often it's the stomach's contents that will decide if and when they come up. Soon the only say he had left was whether he would lean over the rail and feed one of the trees, or leave evidence of his problem on this white wood.

Up to this moment, everything had been perfect - and then up to this second everything had been salvageable.

First, a horrible choking sound like a wet explosive going off. And right on its heels, her worried voice, yelling "Yuzuru!"

Even this wouldn't be quite so bad if they'd only just arrived and begun. But half his share of the spread was what he was losing now. All this time it had gradually congealed into a mystery stew, and that observation helped the rest along, so that when he could finally contain (nothing) and lift himself into a stand, he found Chika right next to his quivering side.

It was horrible, emasculating. It was luck that almost no one else was outside with them.

"Are you okay?" she asked again, cheeks red.

He thought about wiping his mouth with his sleeve or his hand, for want of a ready napkin; the indecision made him do nothing about whatever might be left. Chika seemed to be trying not to look below his eyes.

More than lightly singed, the passage his voice had to go through made it come hoarse. "No." He swallowed around the remaining fires. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

They were both willing to act as if nothing happened and just get on with the rest of their day, so ultimately they both returned to the table, what remained on it, and what they'd been talking about.

But Chika never completely lost her redness while they were there.

* * *

At the time, he'd been sure that despite not letting it show beyond color, she'd been embarrassed too. Only possible reaction to something like that, right?

Each day since then she'd been acting just a little strange, only ever when they ate together. He caught her contemplating him out of the corner of his eye, now and then. Assumed she was wondering if he might randomly vomit in front of, not just others, but people whom they knew.

He didn't know how to apologize beyond what he'd already said. And the second time he'd tried that, he got the same answer: assurances it was all fine.

But these looks... he didn't know what to make of the looks. Not until one of the times it was Chika's turn to make their meals. They split the chore, alternating, both being passable at cooking for having learned young. Yet in this case, dinner was odd: Odd in that it was largely vegetable, and not very many vegetables at that.

A meal like this would seem to suggest the recipient has done something worthy of scorn, if only from deduction (since it had never happened before). But Chika sat right next him all night, pawing him now and then as they talked.

After spending this much time with her, he'd come to learn such particular petting sprang from either of two possible intentions. One was gentle comfort, the type she gave him during long, tiring days or after he had vomited off the balcony floor of an eatery. Nothing terrible, though, had happened that day so far.

(It was always "so far" when invaders could arrive en masse at any moment, intent on flattening Mikado. Again.)

The other was a gentle signal. That a certain kind of pressure has been cooking inside her, that when they did go to bed it was going to be especially wearing on him - so, know that I love you and I'll try to make it easy on you, but I can't promise anything.

In other words: asking for the license to do with him as she will, with somewhat less careful attention paid to minding his flag of surrender.

These were always interesting nights. But what sort of thing could she possibly have in mind that she was giving him such a light meal?

He didn't receive any clues; only confirmation, from walking in the bedroom from his shower to see she'd put on what could only be adequately described as "The Midnight-Blue One". Some camisole nightdresses, she wore when she wanted him to have _no hope_ of being able to keep his head above the deep, deep sea he would inevitably drown in that night - even though he could not foresee himself telling her "no" while he had not yet passed out from exhaustion, and even then, if only she asked him.

Smiling but a little nervous, Chika wasted no time.

"There's a thing... that I wanted to try. Once."

_Oh._

Usually she didn't really spell it out like that. Her intentions were simply received, and she trusted him to protest if he found it necessary, though he hadn't yet. They hadn't even formally decided to invert the usual roles their country demanded of their sexes; she'd merely laid him out experimentally the first time, and he hadn't resisted a thing.

"What sort of thing?"

"Well," she hemmed, almost sounding like she was inventing the story as she went. "I want it to... be a surprise."

Why a surprise? ...And why bring it up, then, if she still didn't intend to tell him beforehand?

"All right."

Showing his consent, he approached the bed unhesitatingly; as expected, Chika grabbed him once he was in range and guided him down right next to her. Oh, that controlled, unassertive forcefulness. She began by tugging open his robe by the collar. No matter how many times she slipped the terry down his shoulder, it still gave him that same anticipating thrill.

"You'll... let me know, if you want it to stop."

"Of course?"

It was the sheer conflict at play in her demeanor and every word that went to making _him_ nervous. She'd dressed like she dearly wanted him to say only Yes, but here was acting as if she expected him to start saying No. And wanted to nudge things toward a mild No instead of an alarmed one.

Following that theme, her nails pressed against the juncture where shoulder and neck and back all meet. She always kept them trimmed, but even trim nails have an insistence, intention that fingertips by themselves don't. And the back can be a very sensitive place. He knew that for certain by now.

Thus it never took long for him to loosen with a full-bodied tremble and be guided still down while helpless. Laid out face-down, on the pillow, as if burying himself in it, while the hardness of nail was traded for the forcefulness of tips. Always, _always_ , it must be stressed, better than sex, her massages. Yes, she was buttering him up, well and effectively.

This mystery desire could be something truly horrible.

But no, that couldn't be possible. Chika was a sweet, gentle bird who never liked to ask too much of others, and only came around to this dominance after many days of encouragement to take everything she wanted; what could possibly be "truly horrible" about any of her tastes?

If anyone could be called a "freak" between them, it had to be he. Even now he still felt shame for the impurities that glimmered in his ideal of gentle romance. Still felt certain Chika deserved a bit better than the type of man who'd had to excuse himself when she'd told him "Just call me Chika now", and was back from the water closet in just two minutes. Than the kind of ex-teenage boy who - even if you could call this "normal" - had paused one of the Rank War records at the right moment, and before even considering it took a picture with his phone: her legs in the Tamakoma-2 uniform, his old, prized, dirty secret. This was clearly too animal and primitive a creature to be worth such a beautiful and unblemished bird.

Thus, even though light pressure might extract the nature of this "thing" from her, he let it stay a secret, a surprise like she wished.

He couldn't maintain the paranoia for long anyway. One thing always slips into the next like water. Like this robe, slipping further down his back. Whether or not it stayed in some fashion depends; it stayed more often than not, because part of her loved his weakness, and the robe itself could be a toy in the service of overwhelming him with sensations. It was still a _very_ soft robe. But tonight she had tugged the whole thing away, discarded it so that he could feel her warmth all over his back, unfiltered.

Her legs were this close to straddling his, and a thought struck him. There was no real way of telling if what she touched him with had been a Trion body all this time. That would be the most convenient way to do something "surprising."

Usually with them, there was no penetration, either way, with anything longer or wider than a finger. He could last longer in the ocean that way, and it doubled as birth control without extra effort, though had the side effect that he hasn't gotten used to the clench of her paroxysms. Now, how much would things be different if _she_ were doing the penetrating? Would she keep going after his shot was spent, long until after he could feel sensations again?

He wasn't sure if the notion filled him with fear laced with interest, or interest laced with fear.

But nothing felt new and different below her nightdress against him. All that entered a passage was a pair of her digits, pressing down along his tongue. The way she traced it, he briefly believed it meant to "replace" something else. Normally he had no trouble with his gag reflex, just as able to handle sudden intrusions as anyone else. But he didn't expect it to be tested, and so the next he knew, her fingertips dove past his low guard.

Rationalizing this even as it happened, he understood why the light meal before. She'd been thinking ahead to this very moment for that long.

And perhaps it was that anticipation that made her shudder over him when they'd only just started.

Whether it was that reaction of hers, or merely the fact it was Chika, he _didn't_ feel any show-halting revulsion. There's the shock of losing what's in your stomach when you weren't expecting it, but still strong under her immaterial weight was the expectant perk at their closeness.

Chika left her hand at his mouth, and while he was stuck with this flavor, she shifted and turned him on his back. Her face fell hidden in the blind spot just below his left shoulder, but he could feel a flood sliding against his leg, which was almost far more descriptive.

Somehow, he found the hand that still penetrated his mouth to be doing more than the gasps she couldn't control, or the positions of her legs, or her second little 2.4 earthquake. Even though he had little left to force out, her fingertips rested on the back of his tongue, within his throat, where the slightest little jolt made his reflex spring like a trap but came short of tugging anything else from his stomach. When the retch stopped in his neck like a hiccup, its restrained rush drained back down like a tide, and somehow that tide settled in _very_ erogenous zones.

Only three of these lapping waves and he spent warmly against the crook of her hip.

She was preternaturally skilled at positioning everything so that his messes never once threatened to stain her nightdresses. Her legs, her body slipped from him while she tugged out a tissue (instead of the usual, her hand alone) and cleared the evidence away. This was routine and almost mundane, yet it suddenly struck him as odd; why worry too much about _semen_ right now? Only he would be seeing the nightdress, should something happen to it, but that pillowcase looked too much like ones in the guest room....

With the smaller mess dealt with, she fell back upon him. This part was also usual, the afterglow snuggle where she sought his warmth. But instead of lying against him in a comma-curl like a fox next to a warren, patient, patient, deadly patient, she tossed her leg over his other hip as an anchor and clutched him with all her body, almost desperate in the constant, subtle undulation of her spine. On his ear, her breath came _hot_.

He thought he felt kisses edge close to, if not on, the corner of his mouth.

Then quickly he felt dizzy from the movement of his blood and the emptiness of his stomach, and the world dropped away for a moment or two, not so much blackened as suspended in fog. When he came back to it, Chika was also returning to the bedroom; she'd left it with the laden pillowcase, and slipped back into bed leadenly, nestling for actual sleep.

Was it over already? Only thrice! Normally he didn't even bother counting. As with deep sea diving, you'd black out long before you could ever see the drop bottom out. This little, he couldn't imagine was enough to make her spent - however _enthusiastic_ it made her in the innermost recesses of her soul.

Slightly startling him, he felt her cold hand curve over his own forehead. Her body's heat burned at a warm glow, long-lasting, but fairly gentle in itself. 

"How are you feeling?" she asked into his shoulder. "Bad? Not so good?"

"I'm fine," he said, and surprisingly enough, he meant that. One mouthful's worth wasn't much, especially when weighed against her _deep_ response.

But as far as his body went, he felt a bit like a float with all of its air let out.

* * *

The next day arrived with no fanfare, sneaking up when he hadn't been looking, marked by the light of morning and Chika's absence. She had been so neat and tidy with something that sounded an equal part messy by nature, the pillowcase not being there was his only real proof of what had gone on last night. That, and the desperate hungered protests that woke him once a tasty scent wandered its way up the stairs.

_Well.... That could have been a lot worse._ It could be _much_ worse. 

He wandered down after brushing the taste of his stomach out of his mouth, sitting emptily at the kitchen's dining table. It would be a few more minutes before the hearty, restorative breakfast was done. The Midnight-Blue One had naturally been traded for a normal nightshirt, not designed for getting a response and, yet, still so beautiful on her.

Again she asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yes. Just hungry."

"Sorry."

"No, it's fine."

It would astonish him just how fine it turned out to be, if he didn't know the reason why. In many ways Chika was still a mystery, and all he wanted was to understand her. Being trusted, entrusted with a secret of _that_ type felt far better than losing dinner had felt terrible or the whole idea had felt repulsive and alien.

"What, um...." What was the best way to ask a simple question without appearing to be shaming her? "I have to ask...."

"Why last night?" He worried he'd managed to do it until she did turn her head to glance at him, sheepish. "It's that, well-- You just looked so cute throwing up. I couldn't stop thinking about how much I wanted to see you do it again, so...."

Yes, of course. Losing one's food was "cute"; who can doubt that?

"And, the vegetables. Are they important?"

"I thought it would be the easiest thing to clean up."

"All right."

Without reservation (save to hope this at least wouldn't be _nightly_ ), he thought he was ready to do it again on demand. Sexually, she was almost always in charge; even if he should start things, she led them down the path. Anything she asked of him, he would always say yes.


	2. Chapter 2

February 11th, three days from Valentine's Day, a cultural holiday dwarfed in his esteem by the celebration happening now. Although this one stayed modest; the birthday queen finally felt free to accept special attention from her friends, but she still didn't like to cause too much of a fuss.

Just as well, because it meant more time for them.

He set the stage by telling her, secretly when they were still among people, "Today will be special." As in, more special than usual. She had more than half an hour to mull it over, be tickled by the prospects, and as they returned to the secrecy of their house, she was already rosy-cheeked, expectant.

Even if Chika was a not-so-astonishingly dominant person, there is something to be said for being the one to lie back and be attended to. And since he was, after all, allegedly the man, being that party every single time felt a bit selfish even if she had really been the one to decide on it. So one of these years he took the lead and got a good reaction, and then it became tradition for her to thoroughly relax on this day while, with his clothes in the way so that his eclipsed stamina wouldn't be such a problem, he tried to find the ocean's floor.

No luck yet, but his plan this year was not to try again.

"Today we'll be downstairs."

"Okayyyyyy."

They stopped in the living room, shortly in the kitchen. Over the laminated tile floor, not the wood or the carpet mats.

"First, turn around; I want to surprise you."

While she patiently watched the far kitchen wall, he quietly fetched their least-nice towels, setting them on the coffee table.

His pulse, of course, was beating far lower than it should have - yet mentally, he felt just fine. While she faced away, he jabbed his fingers past the edge of his tongue, and it didn't take very much to make his stomach lurch upward.

The retch, like a rude scolding, made her whip back around by reflex, to see what was "wrong" with him. Suddenly a deep pleasure flavored the clench and tremors, the knowing expectation he'd be making her _very_ happy.

Instead of intrigued, she seemed alarmed, so he gave her a clear smile to show that he was even more than fine. That he intended this as a precursor.

"Oh, Yuzuru, you don't have to do this for me..." But she was blushing madly just from this little, already aroused.

Now with his body convinced it needed to be rid of what he'd eaten, it punched him from the inside trying to roil it out. He still didn't throw up easily, but today was different: he'd sought Kako's legendarily-absurd homemade fried rice and lucked out with an experiment so dreadful that even thinking about its ingredients would have made them all come up.

Even now he couldn't guess whether he should exaggerate his cough or heaving, or if he should have mixed something with the rice to make a better look. Even now, overthinking his vomit felt absurd. She couldn't be _that_ particular about it, could she?

But then, why this little show of nausea in the first place, like a striptease, when he could have easily kept the back of his throat touched and had it over with bluntly?

Maybe part of him hoped the promise, implications would be enough; that he didn't have to actually be sick, merely sound sick, and that would do it for her. But he had no chance to find out if that might be true. Past a certain point, food seems to move with a mind of its own, like a live animal escaping the maw of a snake. He could only control the inevitable spasms for so long, couldn't help lurching forward and down, such that she didn't get the chance to actually see the whitish-brown treacle slide off his tongue.

Having easily forgotten how it feels to lose lunch, he could only stare down at the mess -- not to examine it so much as it happened to be in his fixed line of vision.

Chika dropped a dish towel over the puddle from out of his line of sight, the better to soak it up, and helped him up by the shoulders. At an angle, his head tilted backwards, body loose in places, seized tight in others.

She petted him, the pressure of her hug almost intolerable to his agitated body, but warm and welcome to his mind. Bleary-eyed, he returned her gaze as best he could, and found it closer than expected. She seemed to be bringing him nearer, unconcerned by the smell of his stomach, or perhaps having plugged her nose as a swimmer does.

In trying to figure it out, he'd thought the draw of this for her might be the helplessness involved, the deep discomfort that invited soothing. No doubt that was a part, but far past the last time's desperate cuddling, she gently pressed his spattered lips against hers. Slowly invaded him, kissed him: long and deliberate, seeking any trace of rice, mopping the slick veneer from every wall of his mouth. The throat she couldn't reach, or she would have licked that too.

His legs trembled.

Then, Chika hauled him to the couch, where he could be laid out, head resting on the thick accent pillow, for subsequent mounting. Try as he might to follow her in enthusiasm, his body took violent retching as a reason to feel uncomfortable for a while. When she got past his fly, the only barrier, she had to stroke him to make him stand.

But herself, she was slick enough to admit him on the spot. In his haze, he couldn't insist on contraception. He didn't want kids, she dearly wanted kids. Ultimately, he would always defer to her.

Chika's hands rested on his stomach, over the solar plexus. Very light pressure, but palpable.

He held in a sudden splash with the aid of one hand, doing his damnedest not to make a bigger mess on anything cloth or carpet. This second time wasn't for her; when he _did_ vomit, it put him in a state, sensitive until the bag of his stomach had emptied completely through either route. Now that his stomach was trying to expel the agitated soup even without help, there came too much to dam: leaking past fingers, finding a way to trickle down his cheek. Most of what he managed to swallow down was solid and would certainly be coming back through again.

Distantly he felt Chika tighten when he forced it back. She took his hand away by the wrist, kissed the wet side of his mouth, replacing the run of viscous half-water with dampness off her tongue. The splatter on his palm came next, then the traces over each individual finger. Slowly. Thoroughly.

In true hopeless-lover fashion, he had already stopped thinking of his vomit as a disgusting body reject. The exchange, her taking in what he couldn't keep down, somehow took on an untainted intimacy. He hated to think of her wracked with the agonies of producing it, but given a cup of her digestive juices, he may drink it also, in the spirit of a true exchange.

And this thought made him heave again, oddly dry. No, no... he's still not that far gone yet. Only enough to gladly give her his, since it made her _so - happy_.

While another round was percolating, Chika lay her fingers on his throat, stroking it with a carnal reverence, that being the only way to describe a touch more seductive than it had any right to be in this context. She whispered as if she couldn't help how low her voice had dropped.

" _Don't swallow this time._ "

His watery eyes blinked.

_She's going to do it she's really going to do it._

True that it bordered on ridiculous to be surprised after she'd kissed so much of it off him, but the prospect felt different. Before it was incidental. If she actually tried to _drink_ it it would be that much less incidental.

But it was not his choice to go there.

She'd paid enough focus to how he quivered to know when to dive for the onrush and open him just in time to substitute her mouth for his hand - and after he knew she'd swallowed what she could, the mild strangeness gave way to that same sense of tenderness, closeness. It wasn't too different from a normal kiss. Somehow it struck him - this investigative lapping of her tongue unseen but keenly felt - much like the waves that had splashed over him from the shallow thrust of fingers barely breaching his throat.

He couldn't imagine how this horrible rice could be converted into something she enjoyed, yet she took everything he had to offer, as best she could, and shivered quite a bit against his mouth.

But yet again it was quickly over, so soon the intimacy felt truncated against his expectations. If she was dismounting now, it was no doubt to spare him. She could last a long time, even with a real fire raging within her. Minute-long orgasms, as now, when she was thoroughly, forgetfully aroused. Or edging for hours without losing feeling, still eager and enflamed for when he'd finally recovered from his own pleasure. It was no doubt due to her Trion that she could be considered the eighth wonder of the world.

So this still surprised him; if there was any point in time she should feel absolutely free to ride her helpless, willing husband even half to death, it had to be on her birthday. Almost he'd been looking forward to being knocked out cold by her enthusiasm.

But then this is what she did last time they involved his stomach, too. He could see the reasoning: in exchange for the burden vomiting puts on the body, a little reprieve for his hip bones and heart.

Letting him limply rest, she wiped his mouth, lifted his head -- seems she'd put one of the towels over the accent pillow while he was still frozen, since now she took it away -- kissed him on the forehead, and began to tend to what he left on the floor mere meters from the couch. Of course he understood: she couldn't leave it too long, or it might turn into a real inconvenience. It wasn't like a pillowcase that could simply be tossed into a machine.

He'd also at least been curious if being ill would extend his stamina, but.... _That's just as well._ He'd do it for her, but he also _didn't_ want to risk understanding it too deeply.

Kneeling in his periphery, Chika used the same towel, unfolded, to get up the half-digested rice. She didn't try to eat what landed on the tile, or at least not in front of him, but even now she was driven to play with it slightly - poking the lake inside the towel, just two fingers as if petting a rabbit, getting the tips of them slick. Even just examining what had been inside his stomach minutes before made her smile widely.

Though he was still spent, that was the first time the concept felt erotic to him.

It took only minutes for her to have the mess he made gone and the area cleansed, as she hurried to return to him. It seemed to be enough time for him to recover, his counterpart to her happiness being brief and shallow and almost perfunctory, barely even shortening him of breath; indeed, when she gently settled on the couch and lifted his head into her lap simultaneously, he started to ease to attention.

Chika had armed herself with a bottle of fresh water, which she tipped gently into his mouth. Until then, he hadn't realized how thirsty all this made him. He drank gratefully, too gratefully, and started to cough.

"Don't do it too much," she told him, worried. "I don't want you getting ill from humoring me...."

"Sorry. I just swallowed wrong."

"Okay."

He thought briefly about asking her if it had tasted good, but caught himself, realizing he _really_ didn't want to know.

* * *

"So, er...."

"Yes?"

They were lying in bed after an average and normal dinner, and Yuzuru found himself curious again. He didn't wonder how far exactly this interest of hers might go, but the kisses lingered, and he couldn't help but want to know where they came from.

"I was kind of surprised you also wanted to eat it."

"Yeah... I am too. I wanted to the first time, to be really honest."

"Is it about the, uh...." He really didn't have an end for that question, hoping there was an answer nonetheless.

"Well, it's a little like... really deeply kissing you, in your stomach?" She thought about it a bit longer. "And, seeing what's in your stomach come out is a little like looking inside you too. So I feel like I've seen more of you than most people."

Isn't it said that it's _always_ the quiet ones? They're always like this. To an extent, he was a quiet one too. But the ideas he'd been feeling _guilty_ for, he now saw were really just innocuous, save to the most critical and judgmental conscience. Being too happy about receiving permission to call her by first name, that's not too outlandish. "Nurse" and "patient" meeting for a routine examination isn't even _that_ strange.

_I should ask._ She'd no doubt have been happy to indulge that, even before she discovered her own, ah, unusual Thing. How separate, really, was that from some of the more gently adventurous things they did?

"All right. But, if you wanted to do that all along, why not before?"

"I thought it'd weird you out too much if I tried it the first time."

"Not really." Well, he wasn't sure. It seemed to make better sense that way: Sharing a meal the way you trade saliva. At least, alongside simply wanting to watch him lose lunch, it had the advantage of some form of romance.

The two fell quiet, aware they'd arrived today in even newer territory than before. Knowing Chika, even after receiving obvious blessing, she still must be feeling guilty about driving him to puke for her sake.

He reached over, brushing a bang toward the side of her face. "You know I love you, right?"

The smile she responded with seemed to be one of her genuine ones, not an "I'm fine" one. "I didn't think you'd go this far for anybody you didn't love."

Even if it sounded a bit like he was asking for quid pro quo, all he had to do was say "I also have some things I'd like to try" -- but.... After all this, he was still too chickenshit. When it came to her, he couldn't always be direct.

Best he could come up with to "say" was wait until he happened to next get a scratch, and ask her to look after it. And use that as a springboard to bring it up.

"Is there anything else you'd like?"

She seemed caught off guard. Then went quiet, staring up at the ceiling as though with trepidation. Naturally he tried to think ahead. It wouldn't be Worse, would it? It couldn't be Worse. No... it probably wasn't Worse.

But it was enough to make her hesitate.

Could it be something like... cuckoldry? Even worse, the inverse of cuckoldry? She couldn't want... to ask for something a three-way, would she?

It seemed absurd that just the idea of taking a chisel to their monogamy was more upsetting than the fact she'd eaten pre-digested food from his mouth like a bird, but...

"School uniform."

"School uniform?"

"You still fit your old high school uniform, don't you?"

"I... still fit my junior high uniform."

"That one, then. I've always wanted to see you in an old school uniform."

Yuzuru was speechless; she was speaking so adamantly and yet looking so nervous that it was as if she, after everything, was worrying that _this_ would bother him. His junior high school uniform!

"Wear yours too, then."

It warmed him to see her look so relieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to point this out, because _everyone_ gets it wrong. If cuckoldry is voluntary/desired on the part of the cheated partner, it's called a wittol fetish. “Cuckold” only refers to the involuntary, non-consensual version on the part of the cheated. I only didn't use the correct term because Yuzuru probably doesn't use it either.


	3. Omake

The flu season was afoot, and Chika was indeed playing nurse for Yuzuru.

They weren't indulging the wet dream that had kicked off his interest in being her patient (and given a thorough and invasive checkup), or if in some sense they were, then it wasn't going to work on him while he was actually sick. He felt as though his sinuses would crack and bleed at any moment despite their constant-running lubrication.

Despite her best efforts and his intentions, his stomach was not pleased with the soup being dumped in it to soothe this infection. Without even the wherewithal to think through what he was doing, quite comfortable and unashamed to do it, he leaned away from her feeling his forehead for any change to follow the gut's imperative of getting rid of every noodle.

Once it was done, he hardly felt any better, but he did feel a familiar light touch, curling under his chin. That was not just _a_ touch, but The Touch.

"Ch-Chika," he managed, hands coming to trellis up hers as if dealing gently with a hazardous animal. "I couldn't."

Her other hand came to pet his. "I won't do anything too hard. Just a kiss."

"But you'll get sick too, then."

It clearly didn't bother her, but she nodded at last, reason prevailing over desire. "You're right."

Back to nursedom, she lifted the bucket to go clear it out. Even though it was only the natural first step once such a bucket is full of anything, knowing she didn't actually find the contents anything unpleasant made this act take on a horrible meaning, and Yuzuru realized he would much rather have her taste it from his mouth and be satisfied there than do anything at all with that trove.

Imagine through a sequence of circumstances having to explain what was essentially a cryogenically-stored mild biohazard....

"Wait." Even if all she was going to do was get rid of it and rinse the bucket like any other typical person, it was better to, ah, get the inspiration out of her system. Now, while it was new and medium-rare. "I changed my mind. Go ahead."

"No, you don't have to let me. Really."

"But it's fine." He coughed briefly into his shoulder on the demand of his lungs. "Just a kiss, right?"

"If you're sure," she answered cheerfully, without any hesitation. All was as she'd assured: he bore no taxing involvement.

* * *

About two and a half days later, as Yuzuru's body was mending but not near the point of switching roles, their friend and fellow Sniper Izuho Natsume came into their bedroom, armed with bowls of soup and uniformed Trion body. Not exactly the picture of Orderly solicitude, but who could blame her. What she saw next to the still-impaired husband was her friend who had skated through flu season after cold season as if covered with her own personal antibacterial layer.

"Th- thank you for doing this," Chika rasped, as Yuzuru bowed in bed as best he could.

"It's not a big deal," she answered, even though she backed away from the soup a little fast after setting it down. From there she haunted the doorway briefly, on-call for anything else they might need.

"What did you even do?" Izuho was driven to ask in sheer wonderment after what must be several cases of getting sick during the season while nothing happened to Chika. "Kiss him?"

Everyone was quiet enough to hear the breeze outdoors, and Yuzuru had this feeling of holding an open secret.

"Uhh, never mind. It's not my business."


End file.
